In Experiences of a World War II Veteran, a memoir by James
Woodall Taylor, the reader meets a complete man, representative in many
ways of the men and women of "the greatest generation," those who fought
in World War II. I use the word complete to mean that the man we see in
Experiences of a World War II Veteran has not only accumulated
experiences that have exposed him to the world at large, but also he has
transformed those experiences into a meaningful wholeness. Perhaps
unknowingly, and clearly modestly, the author has provided readers with
the portrait of a man who has lived a full life and made sense of life
by grappling with physical, emotional, and spiritual issues with which
virtually everyone can identify.
Professor Taylor was a most unlikely candidate for being a
complete man, and, indeed, his beginning "from the poorer level of
society" was inauspicious. But the genesis of being a complete man
often begins in meager circumstances, depending on the values that
attend those circumstances. In Professor Taylor's case, being a country
boy in Tennessee, living on subsistence farming during the Depression
taught him to work hard and to value simplicity. Because hard work
required plying skills to succeed at a variety of tasks, Professor
Taylor became adept at all kinds of manual labor, and never shied away
from hard work. The theme of taking on a task that required significant
effort dominates his memoir, whether that task was working as a "pull
out man" in a cellophane plant, traveling West to work in the wheat
harvest, learning how to drive a tractor to earn a living on a farm in
the Oklahoma panhandle, mastering various duties as a noncom in the
military (including cooking), or earning graduate degrees. In every
case, the drive and determination to make something of his life without
complaining about his circumstances is a motivating factor in Professor
Taylor's life-long endeavors. Certainly, the hovering specter of
poverty that dominated his early years and the wraith of unemployment
that attended the Depression are never far away from Professor Taylor's
drive to DO something with his life. That drive is keenly apparent in
his decision to study geography, because as he was told, "there wasn't a
professional Geographer in America who was unemployed." Professor
Taylor's response? "Having lived through the period of such high
unemployment in the early 1930's, up to 25%, this sounded especially
good to me." Even when reflecting on his life when he was approaching
his nineties, after a successful career as an academician, Professor
Taylor notes that his value system included this lesson about economics:
"Good debt is for things of lasting value, such as a home, bad debt for
things of transient value, such as consumer good or entertainment."
Horatio Alger also hovers over Professor Taylor's memoir because
Professor Taylor literally lived a life that is marked by inauspicious
beginnings to success of all sorts: Intellectual achievements enriched
by travel experiences, many years of health, enduring marriage to a
woman he deeply loved (and loves), the pleasure of home life with a son
and daughter, independence wrought by working with his hands throughout
his life, ease in retirement because of prudent investment, and
spiritual solace. In reading Professor Taylor's memoir, one is left
with the indelible impression that his was a complete life, enriched by
variegated experiences, which, in turn, was enriching to others.
I have noted that the theme of overcoming adversity by gritty
determination is interwoven throughout the memoir, but the role of what
Professor Taylor would call providence also figures into his
achievements. This is particularly noteworthy when he recounts his
early schooling and says that his teacher, when helping him learn to
read, considered him dumb intellectually. The problem, as Professor
Taylor soon learned, was that he needed reading glasses. Here's how he
tells the story.
It was near the end of the fifth grade that we learned that I
was visually impaired. One day my mother went to have her eyes tested
to change her glasses. I was "bugging" the doctor as he was writing
mom's prescription, so to get me to quit bothering him, he said, "OK
young man, hop up in the chair and let's see you read the chart." I did
as instructed and started reading. When I reached the third line, I
stopped reading. He said, "OK young man, go on." I said, "I can't. I
can't see it." He replied, "See here young fellow, you need glasses."
The summer between the fifth and sixth grades, with mom's help,
I learned to read. I became a voracious reader.
My response? Hurray for the underdog! Shame on the teacher.
And I think readers, too, would agree. They would also find pleasure in
Professor Taylor's initial experience in graduate school. For those who
cherish Austin Peay State University, the school from which Professor
Taylor received his undergraduate degree, his recounting of his
remarkable success at Syracuse will be uplifting. Again, Professor
Taylor recounts his experience:
Because my B.S. Degree was from a new college which had not been
accredited I was admitted [to Syracuse] on probation. Another factor in
the probation was that I didn't even have a minor in geography. I had
already earned my B.S., they couldn't take that from me, so I decided to
give it a try and see if I could prove myself in graduate school. So I
enrolled in June for the summer term of 1947.
Even though I had a meager background in geography, I did well
enough my first semester that I was offered an assistantship for my
second semester. . . .
An incident happened my second semester that I still remember
with pleasure. As I was walking down the hall one day, one of my
professors whom I respected highly said to me, "You did all right on
that word analogy test last week." "How did I do?" "I can't tell you
your score, but you did all right!" This pleased me greatly, for I knew
that the well known schools in the northeast looked down on the school
of the south. So evidently it had been a pleasant surprise to him for
me to make a good score, perhaps better than some of my colleagues from
some of the well known schools up there.
The complete man becomes complete by accepting challenges to show that
he has the ability to succeed, and neither the negative opinions of
grade-school teachers, nor the cultural biases of professors keeps the
complete man from achieving excellence: become a voracious reader and
an outstanding student. Hurray for the underdog!
Completeness requires attention to a person's spiritual nature,
and Professor Taylor notes early on in his memoir that he was awakened
to Christianity. He explains his commitment to Christianity in his
mid-teens when he attended a revival, but, for some, such an experience
would be ephemeral. Professor Taylor demonstrates throughout his memoir
that Christian faith was no passing encounter but a deeply held
commitment. In later life, he served as a deacon in the Baptist church
and sang in the choir, but those activities are not what convince the
reader of Professor Taylor's enduring engagement with Christianity.
Primarily his war experiences are the proving ground for his struggles
with God in the midst of unspeakable carnage.
Like much of his memoir, Professor Taylor's recounting of his
military service is propelled by the places to which he traveled and the
events that accompanied those travels. Although he made many stops
along the journey that comprised his military career, the heart of that
experience is in Tinian, a jungle area where an airfield serviced
airplanes that bombed the Japanese. In one instance, Sergeant Taylor
was given photographs that depicted a bombing raid on Tokyo.
The devastation which I saw [reported Sergeant Taylor] was horrible.
There had been a fire raid on the home industry section of Tokyo the
night before. I find it difficult to imagine a more horrible fate than
those poor people faced. That night more people were killed than lived
in the city of Nashville and more people made homeless than lived in the
state of Tennessee. Even this is not adequate to tell the personal
horror that the individuals faced. The picture which told it best to me
was one taken after it was all over, one taken from the side of a
street. It showed a bicycle rider, hunkered over the handlebars riding
for dear life-literally! The bicycle was balanced, standing in the
street. All that was left of the person was charcoal, just a human
shaped chunk of charcoal.
Worse devastation followed because the Enola Gay, loaded with an
atomic bomb, left the airfield at Tinian to deliver its horrific
projectile to Hiroshima. The war is all but over at this point in the
memoir. But the horrors of war do not end easily, and Sergeant Taylor,
now a civilian studying at Austin Peay, wrote a short story, "The
Question," for a creative writing course. In "The Question," Professor
Taylor addresses the haunting question of how a God of love can allow
the unspeakable ravages of war. In addressing that question, his
protagonist recounts,
Strange, but the question didn't nag so persistently when the
Japs were the ones to suffer. Guess that was because of the army
training and that slow burning hate which grew in fierceness each time a
buddy died. Then, too, he had never actually seen the Japs burn as he
had his own buddies.
Then there was a let-up in the offensive, and all except
essential personnel were given a half-holiday. He had used his time to
go along with some of the fellows to look for seashells. That was when
he saw the head.
It was floating in a little pool which had been formed in the
shelf of coral that made up the coastline. Each time a wave washed over
the shelf the head bobbed up and down and bumped the coral. Seeing this
with its shreds of trailing flesh, its empty eye sockets and its
grinning teeth sickened him. Undoubtedly, it was an American head,
probably washed up from one of the planes which had gone into the
Pacific the week before.
Later, the protagonist visits a hospital immediately after a fierce
battle on Okinawa:
. . . the wounded were coming back by the shiploads. . . . and now he
could see those tortured devils in rows before his eyes. The empty
sleeves dangled in his face. The legless one just lay there and lay
there unmoving like soundless specters who had come back to haunt those
not yet exposed to the inferno of battle.
These harrowing encounters, along with others, raise "The
Question": Can God be a God of love? The protagonist, who clearly is
Sergeant Taylor, answers that question by affirming, "God, for his own
reasons, created man with a free will. With this free will, man is free
to choose between doing what is good for his fellowman or what is bad
for his fellowman. In other words, man can choose between Good and
Evil. Some men, for their own selfish reasons, choose Evil." This
theological resolution to the problem of evil confirms the goodness of
God and places full responsibility for evil on wicked men. Clearly,
Professor Taylor's teenage revival experience is yet another example of
the complete man, who neither dismisses a person's spiritual nature, nor
shies away from asking difficult theological questions and answering
them by maintaining the historic Christian doctrine of God's goodness
and man's sinfulness.
I would be remiss in concluding this review if I did not note
that the complete man is multi-talented, including artistic sensitivity.
In Professor Taylor's case, artistic sensitivity is demonstrated by
writing poetry. The memoir is filled with poems Professor Taylor wrote
at various junctures in his life, from love poems to war poems to poems
that talk about how the complete man is formed. One such poem, "College
1946," defends the completeness that comes through the crucible of war,
noting that a young co-ed should understand that war has transformed
soldiers from lighted-hearted individuals to complete men who have "seen
the fallen comrades / they have heard the bursting shell. / They, in
short my little lady / Have been through a part of hell." In "America,"
Professor Taylor has a peon of praise to freedom in America: "Come all
ye free men-hail her / Thy love for her now show / Give praise to God
our Father / That he has blessed us so."
Love of God, love of country, love of family, love of values
that promote hard work and thriftiness round out the complete man. But
I would be hasty if I left the impression that Professor Taylor limits
completeness to men. Throughout his memoir, he justly acknowledges his
wife as one who worked hand-in-hand with him as his character was being
developed in all its completeness and who, herself, is complete.
Experiences of a World War II Veteran is a valuable book that
provides insight into members of the greatest generation, aptly named
because of their sacrifices and enduring belief in the value of those
sacrifices to create a better world in which freedom is cherished and
available to all. Professor Taylor has provided readers with rich
details not only about his experiences as a complete man but also about
the life that once existed in this country to motivate people to
completeness. Sadly, the greatest generation and the values that
generation held dear are both passing away, and we in America are
impoverished as they pass but enriched in knowing that what they stood
for has the power to revive and sustain a nation that properly should
seek completeness for all its citizens.
Bruce W. Speck is Provost and Vice President for Academic and Student
Affairs at Austin Peay State University in Clarksville, Tennessee.
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